Room
by Hannah the Scribe
Summary: Five Cinna/Portia one-shots, taking place in their senior year of college, in the house they rent with other students.
1. Room

**Author's Note: For the Imagine Your OTP prompt: "Imagine Your OTP lives in a large house with several other people. They rarely have time to spend together during the day… but at night they often lay awake together in one of their rooms, enjoying the quiet and still while everyone else in the house sleeps, they finally have the time to talk to each other and just enjoy being together." Also, for the If You Dare Challenge, prompt 362. Pipe Down.**

* * *

_Room_

_(__Cinna and Portia find a time and place for peace.)_

* * *

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. It really, really had.

A bunch of the design students had decided to split the rent on a huge rental house near the campus in senior year. Everyone got their own room, there was plenty of space, and it all seemed fine.

But for Cinna and Portia, it posed an odd problem: they felt like, "living together", they never saw each other anymore. When it involved some level of effort they thought about it consciously and constantly arranged ways to spend time together. But now that they were technically living together, they seemed to assume that they were spending plenty of time together when, due to their schedules, they actually weren't. So they'd come up with an unintentional system.

**. . . . .**

"Cinna? Are you awake?" Portia whispered from the doorway.

"Yeah," he mumbled, and rolled over to look at her, pulling the blanket back; it was cold in the house, which if he was talking to most people he would use to explain her wearing socks and a jacket with her loose nightgown, but it was Portia, so he'd learned to stop trying to explain such things.

"Can I come in?" she asked, a question with a rather obvious answer. She still shifted nervously.

He almost rolled his eyes. "Of course. Just like every other night, angel."

She smiled a bit, and curled up next to him, accepting the half of the blanket he offered, although it was excessive since she was much smaller than him. "Thanks," she murmured.

"Hmm." He just absently brushed her hair away from her face, short black strands that had come loose from a rather sloppy ponytail.

"How was your day?" she asked, words slurring from exhaustion, eyes fluttering shut.

"All right. Busy. I take it your day was tiring."

"Hmm," she echoed, snuggling nearer to him, in awkward, jerky movements. He hugged her closer and just held her like that, peaceful, kissing the top of her head softly. It was oddly quiet—everyone else was asleep, and it was only late at night like this that you could feel alone in the big house. But, not quite alone.

She nuzzled her head against his chest, breathing in his scent of fresh fabric, feeling his faint warmth and heartbeat, comforting.

"Go to sleep, angel. We both have to get up early tomorrow."

"What if I don't want to?" she tried.

"Then I'll have to drag you out of bed again. And you know the big brown eyes don't work on me."

She pouted at him, or tried to.

"Portia, sleep."

"Fine. … Goodnight, Cinna."

"Goodnight, Portia."

… A few minutes later, he whispered, "Fall asleep, already."

"Why do I have to fall asleep first?" she whispered back.

"Because _I_ can't sleep until I'm sure that _you're_ safely and happily asleep."

"Well, I can't just fall asleep on command."

"Just try." He kissed her forehead, stroked her hair, her head tucked under his chin, a leg over hers, protective. "… Just try. All right?"

She didn't answer. She was fast asleep.

**END**


	2. Space

**Author's Note: For the If You Dare Challenge, prompt 346. My Personality.**

* * *

_Space_

_(__Portia let Cinna in her room three times during senior year.)_

* * *

Portia'd always had a natural sense of needing her own personal space. Somewhere her own she could always run to, just to be alone with her thoughts, and feel at peace. So her room was a little bit strange, a little bit like her.

The floor was completely covered by a rug of soft fake grass, and opposite it on the ceiling, temporary wallpaper showing a sunny sky with a few wispy clouds that she'd accentuated with cotton balls. The walls were green, which was why she'd picked the room, but they were mostly covered in 3-D fake trees made of butcher paper, taped up from the back, including on the door. The exception was the exterior wall, which was all glass, common in the Capitol. Her bed had a leaf-pattern sheet and blanket and pillowcase on her one main pillow, the rest being throw pillows that looked almost disturbingly like rocks, stuffed animals perched on them—eventually. Next to the bed was a dark wood nightstand with a gray alarm clock in the shape of a bird on top of it, across from it a matching desk and chair, and near that a matching dresser with a large mirror hanging over it.

And no one else was "allowed" in the room. Her door was always closed, and locked if she was in it. When she was with Cinna, they were in his room, which was where she slept almost every night. He didn't question her usually not letting anyone in. Once in a blue moon, he'd get in a short conversation while they both stood in the doorway.

And three times, he was let in.

**. . . . .**

The first time, it was Portia's birthday, and Cinna was in a bit of a panic, because he had five classes that day, Portia refused to say anything she wanted for her birthday, and she also refused to go out to dinner for her birthday.

He couldn't actually see her until after five o'clock.

He'd just gotten home, so after dropping by his own room, he knocked on her door. It opened after a few long seconds.

"Well, don't you look beautiful for someone who won't go out with me tonight," he said.

She flushed. "I didn't want you making a big fuss over today."

"It's my job to fuss over you, angel, and I love doing it, because I love you." He kissed her, still keeping his hands holding bags and such behind his back, out of her view. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," she said, and then, "Come in."

He blinked. "In—in here?"

She paused, and then nodded.

"Why?"

"You said you'd do anything I wanted for my birthday," she said, almost as if it were a challenge.

He slowly, hesitantly, took a step just past the doorway. She shut the door behind him.

"We have… flowers—" he pulled out a bouquet in one of those solid vases that adhered right to the flower stems and any surface you placed it on, handing her things as he named them "—card—" a card he'd drawn himself, in a nice envelope "—cake, with triple the chocolate and triple the risk for diabetes—" a plastic container with a miniature cake, with the frosting spelling _Happy Birthday, Portia,_and forks, a box of candles, and a lighter "—balloon—" a foil balloon that also read _Happy Birthday_ "—and very well-wrapped gift, if I do say so myself—" a box wrapped with maroon paper and topped with a red ribbon.

"You're absolutely ridiculous," she said, trying to sort things out, setting the flowers and balloon on the dresser.

"I wouldn't call it ridiculous."

"I told you not to fuss! I even fed you the wrong date for my birthday for a while, which obviously didn't work."

"Open your damn present."

"Okay," she relented, ripping off the paper and opening the box. Inside were seven small stuffed animals—an elephant, a monkey, a giraffe, a zebra, a bear, a tiger, and a koala.

"I thought they fit your… _theme,_nicely," he said. "I know it's silly."

She kissed his cheek. "They're adorable; thank you." She set all of them on the rock pillows on her bed, and opened the card, read it, again kissed his cheek, and set it propped up on her desk.

Cinna opened the cake container on the dresser, and placed eleven candles around the edges of the letters. "I figure we can do half."

"Hmm," she smiled, while he lit the candles.

"Make your wish," he whispered in her ear, looping an arm around her, and after a second, she blew out the candles. He kissed her shoulder. "Happy birthday, angel."

"You said that." Her gaze went to the floor, shyly.

"I think it deserves to be said again. Now, about that getting diabetes thing—" He handed her a fork.

"Sounds good." She leant up and kissed him. "Thank you," she started, "For all… this."

"You're welcome," he said, almost exasperated. "Now, eat your damn cake."

"Gladly."

**. . . . .**

The second time was because Portia—as usual, but this time to a somewhat higher degree—was stressed. She muttered to herself under her breath, eyebrows knit together as she looked down with bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. She was dressed in a nightgown and jacket, hair in another sloppy ponytail, pulled away from her forehead, where the stress lines were more clear than usual, the color drained from her face.

She was so deep in thought that she jumped when Cinna knocked on the door. Then she stood and opened it. "Hi," she said.

He examined her state and frowned. "What's wrong, angel?" he asked gently.

"Nothing," she lied quickly, taking an automatic step back, and, realizing that it wasn't going to work, sighed, "Just… semester finals," although she was feeling more anxious in general.

"Hmm." He shifted forward a bit, but then Portia went to shut the door behind him, and, surprised, he had to take a full step in. He tucked a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear, his hand running down her back and finally joining his other to circle her waist. "Anything I can do?"

She shook her head, arms going around his neck, slightly leaning against him.

"I try to not worry about finals. Since you're going to do better than me in all of them anyway."

She nudged him with her foot. "Hardly." She rolled her eyes at the idea.

"They're all about actual execution. That's your thing."

"If I have any good enough ideas to use. Which is _your_ thing. And I'm not _that_ good in execution."

"Only according to you, angel." He kissed her forehead.

"I don't test well. Not under pressure."

"They don't mean that much."

"According to _you_," she echoed again.

He kissed her just to shut her up. "Well, your pile system does make the studying look bad," he said, letting go of her and gesturing to the desk, which looked like a disaster area, covered with papers, notebooks, binders, books, fabrics, thread, sketchpads, pencils, pens, erasers, white-out containers, rulers, highlighters, scissors, glue, beads, buttons, needles.

She shrugged, running her hands down to each clasp one of his, interlacing their fingers and moving both of their hands back up between them.

"So, why am I allowed in today?"

She shrugged again. "Because I'm tired," she whispered finally.

"Mm," he echoed. "It's late. Come to bed, then. Or stay in here; I have to get up early and you don't, so, I wouldn't want to wake you."

She considered for a second. "I'll stay here. I might get up and study again, anyway."

"All right." He squeezed her hands, then let go, and scooped her up into his arms. She squealed in surprise and squirmed on instinct, but he playfully "dropped" her on the bed, pulled the covers out from under her and then tucked them back over her.

She pouted at him.

"Go to sleep," he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips, all with a small smile. He brushed her hair away from her face one last time.

"Fine."

"_Sleep,_" he repeated, while she settled into the covers, and he went to shut the lights, closing the door behind him.

**. . . . .**

The third time, it was their last day in the house. They had all just recently graduated, and now they were on their own, and free to live as far away from the campus as they pleased. Cinna and Portia had decided to live together, but there was still a sense of nostalgia and sentimentality in the air.

He, for the last time, knocked on her door.

She opened it after a second. "Hi," she said quietly.

"Hey." He tilted her head up briefly and kissed her lightly. "How's the last day going?"

"Okay. It's just… a lot of changes. I mean—graduating, and moving, and… everything. I —I don't know. How about you?"

"All right." He looked at her. "Are you really… okay? With all the changes?"

"Yeah. I'm… I'm good." She took in a breath. "Do you want to—you should—come in." She stepped back from the door, and he stepped forward. She closed it behind him.

"The place looks so empty," he observed.

"It does." She shifted nervously.

"Well, you've clearly done a much better job of last-minute packing than I have."

"It's not really that good." Her eyes flicked to the floor.

"I'm sure it is." He smiled at her, and twirled a loose section of her hair around his hand, then trailed it down her cheek, her neck, to her shoulder, let it rest there.

She sighed. "I almost don't want to leave. School or here."

"I know," he said softly, and kissed her forehead.

"Life as we know it is ending."

"You make it sound very dramatic," he teased.

She shrugged, as much as she could, and he removed his hand. She rested her head on his chest, tucked under his chin, faintly feeling his warmth, breathing, heartbeat; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, and she did the same. He kissed the top of her head.

"What do you think happens next?" she whispered.

"I don't know, angel. We get settled into our new place, we get jobs… I don't know."

"Hmm."

He rubbed her back gently until she turned in his arms, letting go of him, to look out the window. "I'll miss the view," she said.

"There are some nice windows at our new apartment."

"I guess."

"You very specifically looked at all the windows."

"It'll just be different."

"I know." He shifted to kiss her shoulder.

"… Our apartment's kind of high up, isn't it?"

"Seventh story, yes." He paused. "You seem to have a lot of reservations about it now."

She sighed again. "Don't listen to me. I'm just overthinking out loud."

He intertwined their hands in front of them. "I want to listen to you. It might not be too late to ask for the same apartment version on a lower story."

"No, it's fine. I just—it's fine."

"Okay," he said, still seeming concerned. "There's no way to fall out of it. And the building is very stable."

"I know… I know."

"I assume you want the view room?"

"If you don't."

"Your pick."

"I'll take it, then," she whispered.

"Good." He changed the subject. "And how are the job applications going?"

"All right. Right now I'm learning towards that paid internship. Any news on your art class TA application?"

"I got a confirmation e-mail that they got it, but, that's it."

"Well, confirmation is good."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. He kissed her cheek and then let go of her. She turned to face him. "I need to go check that all of the boxes stayed closed, speaking of confirming things. I'll meet you out front."

"Okay."

He kissed her one more time before heading out. "Love you," he said.

"I love you, too," she smiled, and then he was out the door for the last time.

**END**


	3. Place

**Author's Note: For the If You Dare Challenge, prompt 247. Psychological.**

* * *

_Place_

_(Portia panics. Cinna helps.)_

* * *

When Cinna opened the door, he immediately felt rather assaulted. Four pairs of eyes stared at him. "Portia's doing it again," was all Fenton said.

"I know," Cinna sighed. "I got the text. What happened?"

"She tripped, or—something—and knocked over a vase, and then Nerva started yelling at her—"

"—I wasn't _yelling _at her—!"

"—Don't yell at _him,_ now—" snapped Alonso.

"—And she just… got like this."

Cinna looked over to where Portia was on the couch, curled up, sketchbook resting precariously on her knees, the pages flying while she drew, almost manically. She didn't seem to notice anything else in the room.

"How long has it been?"

"Almost half an hour."

"All right," Cinna said. "Just… give me a minute with her." He walked over towards the couch, stopped behind her, threaded his fingers through her hair. "Hey, angel." He kissed the top of her head lightly. "What's wrong?"

She gave no response, her pencil still skimming over the pages. The drawings seemed coherent—and they were good—mostly designs, the ones he saw of a dress covered in spherical beads labelled as being blue and white, of a vest with buttons in a line that went diagonally, of high-top sneakers with rainbow laces.

Cinna moved around the couch and sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulders. He just sat there and watched for a minute, didn't say anything, didn't make any move to stop her. Then, finally, when she'd stayed on one page for a bit longer than usual, he said, "It's beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you," and kissed her temple.

Her concentration seemed to be breaking just a bit. Her drawing had already grown slower, and now she seemed to notice his voice. He gently rested a hand over hers, and after a few seconds, she stilled. "You don't have to talk to me. Just listen." He kissed her forehead softly. "Everything's fine. No one's mad at you, angel. You didn't mean to do anything. There won't be any more yelling, or fighting, or any of that, all right? I promise. Do you really think I'd ever let anything bad happen to you?"

"No," she whispered, seeming to snap out of it.

Cinna actually sighed in relief. "Good," he said, and embraced her tightly, rubbing her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and then started to cry.

The tears burned her eyes before running down her cheeks, red from crying, until she could taste the salt on her dry lips, and she tried to close her eyes against them. She sniffled to try to keep her stuffy nose from running, so she was breathing hard against the dry lump in her throat, the sobs and whimpers hurting.

Everything seemed to hurt, really. Her whole body was tensed but shaking with the sobs, and her headache pounded.

"Shh," Cinna soothed. "It's all right… it's all right, angel… shh…."

Eventually, her tears slowed a bit, her breathing starting to even out. … Even out a lot, actually. She once again had fallen asleep on him. Then again, she usually did when she was like this. Cinna carefully moved her sketchbook and pencil to the end-table, shifted her to lie more comfortably, her head on a pillow, and he tucked a blanket over her, kissed her forehead.

He looked up, over the couch, at the front area where only Tamora remained. "She's fine," Cinna said. "She fell asleep."

"Good. She must've tired herself out."

"She probably did," sighed Cinna, as Tamora walked away. He felt tired now, too, watching Portia sleep. He sat on the side of the couch, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances whenever she stirred. And he stayed there for a long, long time.

**END**


	4. Home

**Author's Note: For the If You Dare Challenge, prompt 13. Time Goes By.**

* * *

_Home_

_(Cinna is late, and Portia waits up for him.)_

* * *

On nights that Cinna had commission appointments, he was always home by 9:00.

But 9:00 had passed, and Portia was still waiting for him in his room, curled up on _his _side of the bed, because she'd only really seen him at night lately, and she missed him, and his pillow smelled like him. She wore one of his t-shirts for the same reason.

She always worried when he was late. Tonight she wondered if perhaps he'd been hit by a car, or the commissioner had drugged him, or he'd been kidnapped, or he'd fallen, or hit his head, or gotten lost in the dark, or become trapped in a haunted area.

All kinds of horrible things could've happened.

She told herself that she was ridiculous, that Cinna was just running late—but why hadn't he called? What if he _couldn't _call? Should she try to call him? At what point would she need to get help?

It was 9:01.

The door opened.

She bolted upright. "Where were you? Are you hurt? Are you okay? What took so long?"

Cinna gave her a very strange look, setting his bag down. "With the Hearde commissioner," he said slowly.

"But after that. It's late." She stared at him wide-eyed.

"It's nine," he said, still slowly.

"It's 9:01."

Cinna seemed to understand, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I meant approximately nine. I should've said." He ran a gentle hand over her hair. "I'm fine."

"Okay," she whispered.

He kissed her, then shoved her playfully. "Move. You're on my side."

"I know." She shuffled to her own side while he quickly prepared for bed and then laid down next to her.

"So how was the appointment?" she asked.

"All right," he said. "How was your day?"

"Stressful, thanks to you."

"It was only for one minute, angel." He saw her look and added, "Sorry."

She shrugged. "The rest of it was okay."

"Good."

There was a bit of quiet. "Cinna?"

"Mm?"

"Are you still awake?"

"Mmhmm." He thought, _Clearly,_ but didn't get the word out. He was sleepy now. But awake. Portia reached for his hand and clasped it between them. "You're awake," he got out.

"Mmhmm," she echoed.

"Try to sleep."

She relaxed a little against the bed. "Good night, then," she whispered.

"Good night," Cinna said, and then they both laid there for a while longer before finding sleep. Cinna tried to stay up until Portia rested, but she was trying to shove the remains of worry out of her mind. Eventually, though, they both again drifted into sleep.

**END**


	5. Dwell

**Author's Note: For the If You Dare Challenge, prompt 54. Come Back Here.**

* * *

_Dwell_

_(Every once in a while, Portia leaves.)_

* * *

Every once in a while, Portia leaves. Just disappears. Runs away, even though they're living fairly independently.

They won't have fought over anything, nothing bad will have happened—she'll just pack the essentials, leave a note saying that she's leaving, he shouldn't panic, she'll be safe, and then goes to… live, elsewhere, alone.

A few days later, she'll come back.

The first few times it happened, Cinna freaked, of course. But by this time, he (almost) patiently waits for her to come back. She always does, after all.

He still worries, even though it turns out the same every time. He still tries to call her, even though he knows the calls go unanswered. He still searches for her even though it goes against advice.

This time, it starts on a Friday.

He comes home and there's no sign of her, even though she didn't have anything scheduled and hadn't told him she'd be out.

He starts asking around. "Have you seen Portia?" he asks Tamora.

"No," she says, not seeming to see anything wrong with this. "Not since this morning."

Cinna goes through their schedules mentally. Portia would've been alone in the house in the middle of the day.

"Thanks," he tells Tamora, although he's cursing mentally.

"—She probably ditched again," Nerva says as she walks into the room.

Cinna sighs. "I'll check her room."

He prays that she hasn't left. But he goes to her room and, even though he knows it's empty already, knocks, then opens the door. There are things missing. And there's a note taped to the inside of the door.

He closes his eyes and then takes it and reads it, shutting the door again. He never even went in.

_Cinna,_ the paper starts, because he's the one who will look for her the most, _Don't worry, but I'm leaving. Just for a few days, I have a lot of stress and need some alone time. I'll be safe, don't worry, again. Please don't try to find me or contact me, we can talk when I get back. _

_Love,_

_Portia_

At least this time she acknowledges that she's coming back. That's his first thought.

But a lot of worried ones come after that.

**. . . . .**

It's a stressful few days. It's a weekend—it always is, when she leaves—and this gives him time to worry, to call and text and email and just try to get her to talk to him.

She needs space, he knows. But _he_ needs to know that she's okay.

And right now, he just doesn't.

**. . . . .**

Late Sunday night, there's a knock on his bedroom door.

He jumps out of bed to open it.

It's her.

He embraces her so tightly he's sure she can't breathe but he doesn't care about that at the moment, because _Portia's fine, Portia's safe, Portia's home, _and he tries to catch his breath, himself.

Then he releases her.

"Hi," she says quietly.

"Hi," he gets out, his voice a bit choked. He tries to fix that. "Come in." He closes the door behind her.

They look at each other for a moment.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Because more than angry that she left and put herself in danger, more than sad from missing her, he was scared for her. And he's still worried now.

Portia nods, slowly. "I'm sorry," she tries, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt.

"I know," he says, and then also tries, "_I'm_ sorry."

She shakes her head.

"I missed you," he says, because it's true and it feels right to say.

"_I know. I'm sorry._"

"You can't keep doing this," he says. "It's not fair to anyone. If you needed to be alone, there were other ways—"

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Let's not talk about this now."

"We _should_ talk about this," he counters. "Portia, you just disappear. You could get hurt and I wouldn't be there to help you."

"Cinna—"

"—Every time, I beg you not to leave again. And you don't _listen_." His anger is coming out now. He tries to suppress it. But he also needs to get his point across.

"I do listen," she says, "and then things change."

"They don't change."

"They change, and then this is how I get over it," she says.

"It's not healthy," he argues. "It's not healthy, it's not _safe_, it's not _right_…."

Portia shrugs.

He takes a deep breath, tries to get his emotions under control. Portia does, too. "I just needed space," she says.

"I would've given it to you here."

"But I couldn't have had it here. There are too many people, there are always too many people, I just needed to be alone, don't you understand that?"

"I do," he says. "But there are better things than running away. Maybe you wouldn't have been so alone, but you would've been safer, and that's what matters."

He gets another shrug in response. He sighs. "All right," he concedes, "it's over now. We can negotiate later. I don't want to fight now."

"Neither do I," she says, still quiet.

"Good."

He kisses her, for the first time in days, and at least feels relief.

"I'm glad you're back. I love you, you know."

"I love you, too."

So they tried to focus on that.

**END**


End file.
